


All Of You

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: F/M, I cried writing this so I'm very sorry, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9253247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'Angsty McLennon??? Hahaha I crave pain'. Paul gets a phone call that breaks his heart.





	

“ _John’s been shot._ ”

And with that sentence, Paul felt as if he had been, too.

“What?” he said. He had heard, perfectly, every word that had been fired at him, but he wasn’t sure he had truly understood. _John’s been shot_. He knew other Johns. Surely it must be someone else.

“ _John’s been shot, Paulie. John. Johnny._ ”

“Oh.” Paul blinked, and nodded.

“ _John. Paul, **John** has been **shot**_.”

“Yes,” Paul mouthed, and then suddenly his legs gave up and he was on the floor, staring, wide-eyed, up at the phone that was attached to the wall, the wire extending and straightening so each curl pulled taut. “John.”

“John L-”

“I know!” Paul roared, and then closed his eyes. “What hospital is he in?” he asked, more quietly. His emotions were gone, suddenly, leaving only the room for rational thought. He must go, immediately – leave Linda and the kids. He had to be in New York. John needed him.

“ _They took him to Roosevelt Hospital-_ ”

“I’ll be out there. As soon as I can. Is Yoko with him? Are they taking visitors?” Paul cast around. He could leave a note – Linda would understand. She was the only person he’d ever trusted with how much he’d loved – he loved John. She would know. She would forgive and understand.

“ _He’s dead, Paul_.”

Paul dropped the phone, and then scrambled for it.

“What?” he asked weakly, and there was a sigh.

“ _I’m sorry. I have to go sort the press out-_ ”

“Dead?” Paul whispered.

“ _Dead on arrival. He didn’t even make it to the hospital. Paul, I am so sorry…_ ”

Paul hung up, and slid down to the floor.

He saw him, clear as day, then, sat on the other side of the kitchen, between the cupboards – not John as he must’ve been when he died, forty, age just starting to touch his face, but the John he had first met, a teddy boy of fifteen with booze on his breath and that dark, shark-like glare, just sitting there, head bowed over his guitar, and he reached out. John as he had looked during their first kiss – eighteen, umber dark between the strands of black in those beautiful eyes, mouth falling open in pink surprise as he debated whether to thump Paul or kiss him back. John during that holiday to France, laughing together and still just nobodies as they kissed in the heat of the night. The John whose suit he had buttoned up before every show, image over integrity as Brian had fussed around the two of them. John turning to him on the set of _Help!_ and telling him how much he _fucking_ hated all this bollocks, integrity over image as they had stood together, close enough to kiss again and again. John with that awful moustache that tickled so badly to kiss during Sgt. Pepper, the same John that had come sprinting to the hospital after his crash that night and had kissed him until a nurse knocked politely on the door. The same John that had started to watch him with wary eyes and back away, away, away, towards George and towards that ever-tenuous high and towards _her_ and…

He realised someone was keening lowly, and as he clawed at his face, feeling the heat of tears sliding down his face, mouth open in a bow of misery, he realised it was him.

“Paul?”

He looked up as Linda descended the stairs, and tried to explain, but all that came out was a childish babble of pain, and then she had hold of him.

“I’s John! He’s dead!” he almost screamed, and she pulled him out, out into the living room where his sobs could not wake the children. “Oh god, Linda, he’s dead, he’s dead…”

“What?” Linda whispered, stroking his face, and Paul stared into her eyes. “What happened?”

“ _He’s dead_ ,” he whispered, and collapsed again – his legs simply could not take the weight on his shoulders, and she slid to sit next to him, holding him as he shook. “He’s dead.”

“I know, Paulie. Oh god.” She held him close to her chest, and he clutched her. “Oh god.”


End file.
